


Troubled waters

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (I mean. barely.), Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Jaskier just had what one might call a rude awakening.Anextremelyrude awakening.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 280





	Troubled waters

**Author's Note:**

> *tip-toes into new fandom* Hi! This was written for [this Tumblr prompt](https://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/616394742637510656/please-please-i-will-give-you-my-firstborn-child), asking for Geralt accidentally hitting Jaskier in his sleep and freaking out about it. I couldn't say no, I love this trope LOL. Enjoy! (hopefully)

Jaskier just had what one might call a rude awakening.

An _extremely_ rude awakening.

He and Geralt happened upon a town in need of some help _and_ friendly enough that they had no problem letting them stay the night after the job was done – Jaskier would have thought it self-evident that, if you hire a Witcher to get rid of your problems, you should also show him the bare courtesy of not kicking him out of town five minutes after he’s managed it, but he’s come to learn that not everyone agrees, much to his outrage –, only they had to settle for a room with one bed. It’s not the first time, and it’s never been much of a problem.

Actually, Jaskier kind of likes it, because he’s a hopeless, pining idiot and it’s undoubtedly sweet how Geralt always wants to sleep between him and the door.

Usually, Geralt even lets him get away with curling up against his back for the duration of the night, and though Jaskier tends to wake up when he’s already been left alone in the bed, the experience has always brought him nothing but gifts.

Until now, of course, when he wakes up because of a sudden, _horrible_ pain in his head. He yelps before he can even realize what has happened, his hands shooting up to grab his face, and it’s then that he realizes that it’s not his head, it’s his _face_ , his _nose_ to be precise, and it _hurts_.

It's an uncomfortable, tingling pain shooting under his skin, like he needs to sneeze but he _can’t_ and it fucking _hurts_ , alright?

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, blinking through the tears building up in his eyes and making a conscious effort to breathe through his mouth, because otherwise he’s going to _scream_.

Not that he wouldn’t be justified in doing so, mind you.

What the _fuck_.

Only when his thoughts seem to somehow settle and his internal monologue moves beyond a string of curses, he takes notice of Geralt next to him, sitting at the edge of the bed without moving a muscle, staring at him like he’s completely at loss as to what to do.

Which is ridiculous, because he’s a _Witcher_ , he’d expect him to come to his aid immediately if he were injured, not to dumbly stare at him.

Between the dim early morning light and his eyes still watering, it takes a few moments for Jaskier to properly _see_ him, and that’s when the thought strikes him: there is _literally nobody else in the room_.

“Did you just _hit_ me?!” he bursts out, a good mixture of shock and outrage.

Geralt presses his lips together. “It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, his eyes darting away for a moment.

“Yeah, well, I _hope_ so,” Jaskier mutters, grimacing, because his nose is still _tingling_ in that weirdly painful way, and regretting it a moment later because it only makes everything worse.

“It’s not bleeding,” Geralt says then, matter-of-fact. He doesn’t move to reach for him, the way he usually does when he needs to inspect a possible injury, instead he keeps as much distance between them as the bed will allow. “It doesn’t look broken either.”

“And thank Melitele for _that_ ,” he breathes out, honestly relieved. “I’ve seen people getting their broken noses straightened, it’s —” He trails off, exaggerating a shiver to get his point across.

Geralt hums noncommittally, looking away for no good reason other than the fact that he appears to be feeling _horribly_ _guilty_. Which isn’t particularly surprising and tugs unpleasantly at Jaskier’s stomach on top of everything else.

“Do you think it will bruise?” he resolves to ask, because a giant purple bruise right in the middle of his face is probably not great for business. Or maybe it could be. He could come up with a nice ballad about how he got heroically injured aiding his Witcher in a fight — yeah, he probably could make that work.

Geralt gives him a quick look, grimacing a little. “Possibly,” he says.

Jaskier is pretty sure that this is one of the sourest moods he’s ever seen him in, which is saying something, considering that his friend probably wouldn’t know happiness if it jumped him.

Now that the ache is dulling and he’s not quite as startled, Jaskier figures that it’s a good time to start looking for a way to explain to Geralt that he is _definitely_ being more dramatic about this than he needs to be. He isn’t sure what happened, if he was having a nightmare and he lashed out at the wrong person, if he was simply tossing and turning in his sleep and there was an unfortunate collision, but it hardly seems to matter: it was an _accident_.

So it’d be amazing if Geralt could stop looking like he’s ready to light himself on fire any moment now.

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier eventually says, reaching out to give him a playful shove, enough to get him to turn around. “I was planning on complaining a little about this, indulge in some theatrics since I’ve been given an excuse, but if you keep looking so mournful you will suck all the fun out of it!”

Geralt doesn’t really react to his light tone, his face as dark as before, the only difference being that now he’s also _staring right at him_ and somehow that makes him look all the more guilty.

“It was an _accident_ ,” Jaskier eventually says, more serious this time. “So just — say that you are sorry and get over it, alright?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’m sorry,” Geralt says then, tight and terribly _loaded_ , so sincere that it’s almost uncomfortable but not carrying any guilt away from his face or posture.

As a few moments pass in silence with them staring at each other, Jaskier naively waits for Geralt to absolve himself and stop looking so _grim_ , but obviously it doesn’t happen.

“I think you might have forgotten the ‘get over it’ part,” Jaskier reminds him, with a brisk smile.

Not even a _hint_ of humour appears on Geralt’s face. Instead, he keeps _staring_ at him blankly, until he gets on his feet and he reaches under the bed, gathering his swords.

“What are you doing now?” Jaskier asks, knowing that he’ll hardly offer an explanation without any prompting. 

“Taking a walk,” comes the answer, which is _definitely_ horseshit.

“What a _coincidence_ ,” Jaskier snorts, scrambling on his feet as well so that he can walk up to him, planting an accusing finger right against Geralt’s chest. “I sure hope that you aren’t going to try and _ditch_ me now ‘for my own protection’, or something equally as moronic, and without even allowing me the courtesy of a goodbye.” Try as he might to focus on his annoyance, he can’t help the fear creeping up on him, because he’s not _ready_ to be left behind. He needs at least _some_ emotional preparation for that, and they were supposed to have more time together.

Geralt considers him for a second, then he promptly takes a step back. Jaskier rolls his eyes in the bitchiest way he can manage, right before walking right back into Geralt’s personal space. He stares, eyebrows raised and hands on his hips, waiting for an answer.

Geralt looks thoroughly unhappy with him. “I should go,” he says, which obviously is no answer at all.

“I would only follow you,” Jaskier points out. “More or less like I’ve been doing for the past — what is it, thirteen years? Fourteen? Who’s counting after the first decade, right?”

“Well, you _shouldn’t_.”

He snorts. “Why? Because you accidentally hit me in your sleep? I’ll let you know that I once acquainted myself with a really handsome fellow who kicked me in his sleep the very first night — left a massive bruise, I don’t think my leg’s been the same ever since actually — _but_ that doesn’t mean that I didn’t invite him right back in three other times. It can happen, Witcher or no Witcher, is my point.”

Geralt blinks at him for a few moments. “You lack self-preservation,” he eventually observes. His tone is pretty even, but there’s a crack in his façade, and a hint of fondness in his voice. Jaskier dares hoping that he got through to him, at least a little.

“Excuse you, _I_ am the one who hides in the bushes while _you_ throw yourself at things that want to kill you, you are the very last person who can judge me on that,” he protests, playing up some indignance. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s barely morning, so —” He takes a quick look around, cracking a triumphant smile when he locates Geralt’s bags. “I’ll get some more sleep, wake me up when we are to leave,” he concludes, clutching the bags to his chest.

Geralt frowns at him. “What are you doing with those?”

“I’m making sure that you don’t run out on me, of course,” he explains, brightly.

“You’re _sleeping_ with them,” Geralt echoes, half-way between amused and disbelieving.

“You can bet your lovely arse that I am,” Jaskier declares, chin up as he turns around to go back to the bed. His nose mostly feels _uncomfortable_ now, kind of itchy with some lingering pain, he can definitely sleep on it. “Are you still going out for a walk?” he asks then, settling the bags down between himself and the wall.

“No,” Geralt says, after a pause.

Jaskier twists his torso to look at him. “Do you want to come back to bed?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, considering, but eventually he shakes his head. “I’ll just stay in the room. Meditate.”

Of course he will. He swears, Geralt has an unhealthy obsession with meditation. Jaskier tried it once, for fun, but it’s apparently impossible for him to sit still and quiet long enough to manage it. He hears that it’s a good way to get some rest, but why not _sleep_ then? Sleeping is so satisfying.

Eventually, he lays down on his side, hugging Geralt’s bags – because no, he absolutely does _not_ trust him not to try to sneak away in a twisted and noble attempt at remedying a situation that does not need remedying to begin with – and facing the wall. It keeps the morning light off his face and it prevents him from being tempted to open his eyes and spy what Geralt is doing – or just — spy on Geralt in general, as he spends half his life doing.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” he calls out then, eyes already closed.

Silence.

“It’s morning, Jaskier.”

“…Hush. I’m sleeping.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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